Coming of Age

I was never popular in school, but that's okay, because I never wanted to be.

If I could have gone through that part of my life invisible, I would have. My report card always said things like, "Barbara knows the answers but will not raiser her hand and participate." But I'd learned early on that the other kids didn't appreciate the smart ones. You were jeered at and picked on for volunteering the answers, so I kept my hand (and my head) down and became as invisible as I could possibly be.

Many of you will be surprised to hear this, given how outspoken I have become since those early days. While I'm still something of a lone wolf, I howl more now than I once did. Yet there's still a part of me who wishes others couldn't see me.

"Others," of course, being insurance companies. Thanks to the information age in which we live, marketers know that I'm approaching the age when Medicare becomes available to me. As that day nears, I've noticed there's a decided ramp-up in the amount of mail I get from insurance companies who want to help me navigate the tangled process.

"Come have coffee with us, and we'll explain how it works," one of their pitches goes. It's much like those timeshare offers we used to get. (Sit through the presentation, and you'll get a free TV. No strings attached.) Thanks, but I can get my coffee at home without feeling pressured to sign up for your Medicare Supplement plan.

At one point, I was getting dozens of calls from the same company. I made the mistake of answering the first one. Although I hung up and blocked that number, I continued to get calls from the same exchange, except the last four numbers were different. When I complained to Mr. Ginley, he suggested I answer one of the calls and tell them I'm not eligible for Medicare for 10 years. Which I did, and that ended the harrassment. (Why do I feel guilty about lying to telemarketers? That's dumb, I know.)

As far as the mail is concerned, I know it's only going to get worse. I just went through this with Mr. Ginley, and the insurance companies were relentless. 

Spoiler alert: This part is my PSA for anyone getting ready to sign up for Medicare.

While it's true that signing up for Medicare is a minefield, thanks to my sister, I used a website called Boomer Benefits, and they were wonderful. If you're entering the Medicare zone, go to their website and watch the two videos they've posted, then sign up to talk to one of their folks. They don't sell supplemental insurance, they're brokers. So they walk you through the process, explain your options and help you sign up. And they continue to work with you after you've enrolled, so if you have questions, they can get you answers. But they don't harass you every five minutes. Honestly, I don't know how the average citizen figures out what to do. It's shameful what certain politicians have done to screw up a system that used to be straightforward. (I won't mention any names, but you know who you are.)

Okay, off the soapbox now. 

Of all the mail we've received concerning health insurance, life insurance and burial insurance (let's make sure we cover ALL the bases), the most bizarre are the postcards and flyers addressed to my father-in-law. 

We're not exactly sure why he's getting mail at our address, given that he never lived here – and he's been gone for over 40 years. 

"Maybe we should forward this to Holy Cross," my wisecracking husband quipped. 

I guess those marketing folks don't know everything about us after all. 

On the Wings of a Wish

There are times when I feel as though I was born in the wrong era.

Union Pacific Railroad, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

I felt this acutely the other night when Mr. Ginley began reading to me from a book that featured travel ads from the 1900s.

"It's almost like traveling on the wings of a wish...this skimming thorough the air in our big, fast ships. You simply step aboard and before you can begin to believe, you're there..."

The book was chock full of carefully crafted copy that made me yearn to get on a plane or a train or a ship and zoom off to exotic locations, snuggled into a wide, comfortable seat or crossing the ocean in an Art Deco style cabin or dining in style in a beautifully appointed Pullman rail car.

Oh, to write copy like that. Copy that would make people dewy-eyed with possibilities.

These days, I supposed if you have the means, it's possible to travel and enjoy such amenities. But you won't find them described as eloquently as they were in the last century.

Nevertheless, I hold out hope of someday taking a train across the country. Maybe when I've retired. I picture Mr. and I tucked into our cabin, watching the world pass by our window. Reading a book and looking up every now and then. Taking in the scenery, basking in a sunset. Noshing in a well-appointed dining car. The destination won't matter. Time will be inconsequential. We'll just be along for the ride.

Someday...

Slow Reading

"Do you miss working at [that place which shall not be named]?" asked Mr. Ginley the other day.

"Only some of the people," I replied. 

And it's true, I miss coffee klatching with Chris and Harry and other contemporaries who understood where we'd been and where we were. Being of a similar age, we shared common experiences and understood obscure references. We'd had to navigate ever-changing technology, workforce shifts and growing older – a process that seemed to sneak up on us. 

As Harry might say, "One day you're a young pischer, the next you're an alter kocker."

That's what I miss.

Serendipity is a funny thing. For whatever reason, I recently picked up a copy of Anna Quindlen's book, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake. The subtitle is "A Memoir of a Woman's Life."

I haven't been reading a lot lately, mostly those cozy mysteries that are devoured and discarded. But clearly, Quindlen's memoir is in a whole other category. 

I've been savoring it.

There's nothing like picking up a book that's filled with page after page where you nod and smile and say, "yep." Quindlen is a few years older than I, but the book was written a decade ago, so she would have been right around my age when she penned it. She talks about everything from childhood memories to marriage and kids to getting older. So much of it resonates with me, that unlike other books I've blown through, I've been reading a chapter at night, right before bed, and taking my sweet time.

Isn't it grand when you find something so copacetic?

I'd love to hear what you've been reading that's touched you. Please pass it along. 

I only have a few chapters left, so I need another slow read soon!

Colorful Riches

As we were cleaning out the closet the other day, Mr. Ginley repeated one of his tired, old chestnuts.

It happened when we came across not one but TWO 64-count boxes of Crayola Crayons. The specter touched a nerve.

"I remember when I was a kid, I only got the 8-count box of Crayola Crayons. YOU people must have been rich, YOU had the 64-count box," he lamented.

Apparently, the Senior Mr. Ginley, who worked for Glidden Paints his entire career (and knew his ecru from his beige), told his son that all he needed were the primary colors. "Just mix yellow and blue, and you've got green. You don't need 64 crayons."

But I digress.

While my family was certainly not in a class with the Rockefellers, we did possess the coveted 64-count box of Crayolas. And yes, it came with the built-in sharpener. However, I was not the first child who got to use the crayons. Like a treasured heirloom, they were handed down from child to child until I, Child #5, was granted access. By that time, their wrappers had been torn away and the little darlings sharpened down (or broken down) into sad, sorry stubbins.

In a valiant effort to sustain the once-grand coloring sticks, my sister, Diane, insisted they be returned, in some sort of order, to the original box, which by then was becoming a sad relic.

Of course, there are always certain colors that maintain their youthful beauty – like the white crayon, which is essentially worthless unless you happen to be writing on black construction paper. We weren't permitted to use the construction paper, except for school projects, so the white crayon was largely spared.

All of this explains why we have TWO 64-count boxes of crayons sitting in our closet. 

As long as they are there, sitting upright in their mostly-pristine state, I can feel just a bit decadent. At any time, I can inhale their waxy fragrance, pluck out a yellow-orange, burnt sienna or one of 62 other beauties in the box and color a page to my heart's delight.

Best of all, no one will scold me for coloring outside the lines.

Lunch With Bob and Gary

Earlier in the week when I heard how warm the weather would be yesterday, I decided to text my big brother, Gary, and see if he was available for lunch. Thankfully, I received a resounding "yes" to my luncheon request, and plans were set into motion.

I was a runner, so Gary had to hold onto me.

I'd punked on a lunch we'd scheduled back in January because I had "the crud." Now that mess was in my rear view mirror, and I was ready to break bread with my most senior sibling.

Because Gary works in Wadsworth, it's customary for me to head to the office, work in the morning, and meet for lunch at Bob Evans. 

Thursday night, I toodled through my closet in search of suitable office wear. 

Hmmm. I assessed my weight gain and decided on one of two pairs of pants that still fit. (Clearly, sweat pants and my high school sweatshirt were not ready for prime time.)

Friday morning dawned dry and warm. I rose early and made up some pasta salad for Mr. Ginley's lunch. Before getting dressed, I took a quick peek at my FB page. I was amazed to discover that Gary and I were celebrating 14 years as Facebook friends. Wow, what were the odds? Well, 365:1, but still. I took it as a sign to play the lottery. Which I did.

But I digress. 

It was time to journey south. For nearly 30 years, I'd made the trek betwixt Cleveland and Akron, barely giving it a thought (unless the weather was really bad). Given the sunny skies and the Bangles CD I played en route, I was in good spirits when I arrived at work.

I was happy to see a large pot of freshly brewed coffee was hot and ready. I greeted two (of the four) coworkers who were in the office and poured myself a heapin' helpin' of the dark brew (along with the requisite additives).

The desk I occupy on the rare occasions when I go to the office faces the parking lot, but it's on a height of sorts, so I get a pretty nice view. I only exchanged brief pleasantries with my coworkers, so I was able to dig in and get my assigned work done.

Honestly, if the office weren't such a hike, I wouldn't mind going in more often. It's a nice change of pace. And the fact that I have to dress up and put on real clothes, shoes and makeup is a good discipline.

Still, I've gotten used to my routine of rising, exercising, breakfasting, reading the paper and commuting up the stairs to my home office. 

Also, there's no cat at work.

In the end, I had a lovely lunch with my big brother. And the drive home under blue skies and sunshine was a delight. 

Plus, it was fun to sing along with Walk Like an Egyptian. 

Although, admittedly, I was unable to do the moves while I was driving.

A Barbie World

There's always been a special place in my heart for Barbie. 

Is it because she shares my name? That she was born the same year as me? Or that my bubble-cut Barbie doll was one of my most cherished possessions as a child?

Perhaps it's all of the above. 

I spent countless hours changing Barbie's outfits. Every holiday I received clothes for her – either store bought or home made. I had the shoes, the hats, the purses and, of course, the bathing suit. My Dad made stands for our dolls – I still have mine. 

In the early days, there was one Barbie. Diane's was blonde, Denise's was brunette, and mine was a redhead, but otherwise they looked alike. Oh, and Denise also had the original Midge with the flippy hair and freckles. I was always so jealous.

Arms and legs didn't bend. There was no Doctor Barbie or Senator Barbie or Astronaut Barbie. Just Barbie.

I still have the plastic case she arrived in, and I pulled it out yesterday to stroll down memory lane. 

So, what prompted this bout of nostalgia? 

The Barbie movie.

I waited until I was able to rent the film from the library. Because yes, I'm a cheapskate. There was much anticipation, because the flick got such a big build-up.

I sat through the 114 minutes of the movie, and when it was over, I felt, well, not much. I've been trying to figure out what I missed. Should I go back and watch it again? I didn't hate it, but honestly, I've gotten more worked up emotionally over Hallmark movies. 

Could it be because for me, Barbie was simply a toy? I never aspired to be Barbie. I didn't see her as a role model. I just enjoyed changing her outfits, pretending she was going to the prom or hanging out with friends. (The only curve Barbie threw me was she didn't have nipples, and that confused me as a child. I suppose that's a conversation I should be having with a therapist.)

But I digress...

Sure, I got the point of the movie. I put myself squarely in the feminist camp. I put on my pussy hat and marched for women's rights in 2016. I recognize that women still aren't paid what men are. There remains a whole lot of inequality between the sexes. And yet...the movie, much like the doll, felt plastic to me. It oversimplified the problems men and women have in building and sustaining a society. While I agree with the points made in the movie, I couldn't help but squirm at all the stereotypes. 

I've had a handful of male bosses that were asshats, but the majority have been good to me (e.g. Harry, Axel, Eric). The same could be said of Judy, Pam, Bette and the women who've mentored me (while a few others, not so much).

If you've managed to wade through my ramblings and you've seen the Barbie movie, I'd be interested in your point of view. 

Maybe you can help me see why I get choked up over animal rescue reels but I can't work up much of anything for Enlightened Barbie.

Sad Little Donuts

 Every now and then, I lose sight of the fact that I'm not a domestic goddess.

Alas, the homemaker gene skipped over me, but sometimes I forget and attempt to bake something I've no experience with.

And so, here we are this morning, me and my brand spanking new air fryer and a recipe I copied from a book about "simple" things to make in an air fryer.

I'm no virgin when it comes to working with yeast dough. In spite of my spotty talents, I have been able to make a tea ring and bake bread. In fact, a few weeks ago, I resurrected a recipe for Sally Lunn bread. It's a sweet, soft creation Mr. and I fell in love with when we lived in Alexandria. They used to serve it at Gadsby's Tavern, one of George Washington's old haunts.

Perhaps it was because I was buoyed by my success with Sally that I felt I could tackle this donut recipe. After all, dough is dough, right?

Well, not so much as it turned out. 

I meticulously added the ingredients and followed instructions. At least until I got to the part where they wanted me to knead the dough. I looked at the sticky mess in the bowl and realized it isn't the sort of dough you can knock about with your knuckles – it will all end up glued in between your fingers and any other surface it touches. So, using the wooden spoon, I stirred and folded it vigorously, mimicking the movements I'd use if I was kneading it.

Then I set it out to rise in a warm place. I figured if I put it in front of a heating vent, that would do the trick. 

Alas, it didn't budge much. But I soldiered bravely on to the next step.

The recipe instructed me to roll out the dough on a floured surface and cut it into shapes using a 3" cutter and a 1" cutter for the holes.

Harkening back to my Mom's ingenuity (because I don't have specialized cutters), I found a glass that measured 3" and another kitchen tool that was 1". I placed the glass upside down and managed to form the donuts, then made the holes. In the interest of full disclosure, I cheated on the holes, because I just took the leftover dough and rolled them into balls.

The next step was to put the wannabe donuts on a floured baking sheet and let them rise for another 30 minutes. This time, I turned the oven on low (250°) and set the tray on top of the stove where the heat vents. They rose a little, but not much. Desperate times calling for desperate measures, I turned the oven off and stuck the tray inside for an extra 15 minutes. This helped a little, and I decided the poor things were as plump as they were ever going to get. 

Then it was time to put them in the air fryer to bake/fry. The instructions said to load two donuts and two holes at a time and let them go for four to five minutes.

This was the first time using my new fryer, but it's pretty easy to naviagate. Just load 'em up, set the temperature and time and off you go.

The little buggers came out nicely browned. I dumped them in the glaze and on the cooling rack to cure. 

They certainly were a sad looking little lot, I must say, as you can see from the photo.

On the other hand, they were pretty tasty. And my Mom always said it didn't matter how things looked, really, as long as they were good.

Plus, now I can say I've inaugurated my new air fryer.

So yay, me!